Hello, Love (Fck You) Love
by lizardmm
Summary: Three weeks. It had been three weeks since Valentine's Day and the wedding that wasn't, and Santana Lopez had fallen off the planet. Well, not literally, but that's what it felt like to Quinn. And if she hadn't entirely disappeared, there was only one other explanation for why Santana was ignoring her. They'd had sex. And sex changes everything. Quinntana. Faberry friendship
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **Hi, kittens. I'm back. I haven't been able to stop thinking about these two since "I Do." But can you blame me? This little plot bunny has been rabidly kicking at my brain, demanding that I write it. I'm not planning a mega-epic tale like "Second Chances" – probably just a 3 or 4 chapter story – but I need to get this out of my head before I can work on anything else.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

Quinn stared at her organizer calendar. Three weeks. It had been three weeks since Valentine's Day and the wedding that wasn't, and Santana Lopez had fallen off the planet. Or at least that's what Quinn told herself. There could be no other possible reason for why her best friend had been ignoring her. Santana hadn't responded to any of her texts, voicemails, or emails, and her social media footprint had been curiously quiet. No Facebook posts about how annoying Rachel Berry's nightly ritual was, no Tweets recording the height of Kurt Hummel's hair, no Instagrammed images of Brody's head photoshopped onto a Ken doll's body.

Rachel, however, insisted that Santana was alive and well and not facedown in a ditch in SoHo. So if Santana Lopez had not been sucked into a black hole to an alternate dimension, there was only one other explanation for why she refused to talk to her friend – they'd had sex. And sex changes everything.

When Quinn woke up on February 15th, naked in a hotel bed with her best friend, also naked and lightly snoring beside her, she'd promised herself she wasn't going to let things get weird between them. Santana had been her usual cocky, nonchalant self immediately after, and her casual attitude about what they'd done together the previous night had been all the reassurance Quinn needed that nothing was going to change.

They were friends. Very close, very good friends, and this kind of thing could happen without it being a big deal.

But if Santana's recent radio silence was any indication, it_ was_ a big deal. A plethora of worries had crowded Quinn's already busy brain as days turned to weeks without a word from the other woman. What if Santana had only been friends with her on the off-chance that they'd sleep together one day, and now that they had, she had no other use for her? Or what if Santana had been so grossed out by her body or the sex had been so bad, she couldn't talk to her anymore?

She desperately needed to talk to her friend. She needed to make things right between them. She wasn't going to lose her best friend over this. And if Santana refused to communicate with her while Quinn was in New Haven, then she would just have to use the Metro ticket she'd purchased her senior year of high school and come to New York. And when Rachel had called her, sick with worry and voice raw from crying over an unplanned pregnancy, Quinn had even more reason to ditch classes and go to New York.

* * *

A bell rang when Quinn entered the small coffee shop a few blocks from Rachel, Kurt, and Santana's Bushwick loft. While the sun was blindingly bright outside, the coffee shop itself was shrouded in darkness. Sitting by herself at a small table, looking as somber as her surroundings, was Rachel Berry. When the bell rang, she looked up. A ghost of a smile appeared on her lips when she recognized the blonde.

Quinn dropped her duffle bag on the floor and took the vacant seat directly across from Rachel. "What's up with this place? Have you recently become a vampire, Berry?"

Rachel apparently didn't see the humor in her statement. "No," she said gravely. "Just pregnant."

So much for small talk. Guess this was happening _right now. _ "Have you thought about what you're going to do?" Quinn asked, leaning closer.

She'd had time during her commute from New Haven to think about Rachel's situation. As much as it pained her to rehash old memories about her own unplanned teenage pregnancy, she knew she was uniquely suited to help Rachel get through this.

Rachel fiddled with her ceramic mug. It looked like tea. "Ever since I took that at-home pregnancy test, it's the only thing I _can _think about," she admitted, looking down at her hot beverage. "And I just don't know." The final statement came out as a kind of choked whisper. It was clear to Quinn that her friend was falling apart, frayed at the edges like a blanket that's been washed too many times.

"Have you told your fathers?"

Rachel closed her eyes to squeeze back the tears. "No." Her voice sounded rough. "They're going to be so disappointed in me."

"I'm sure no more than mine." Quinn tried to be comforting, but she didn't have a lot of experience at it. Comforting Rachel Berry wasn't among the things in life she was very good at. Tormenting, yes. Being a shoulder to cry on, not so much. "But on the bright side, at least they can't kick you out of your house." She tried to smile, but it felt more like a grimace.

"Small comfort," Rachel sighed miserably.

"You're not sleeping, are you?"

Rachel self-consciously ran her hand through her long bangs. "Is it that obvious?"

Quinn gave her a gentle smile. "You look like crap, Berry."

Rachel's face crumpled. "Oh, Quinn," she cried. "This was never supposed to happen! I wasn't even supposed to have sex until I was 25 and had won the first of many Tony's. If I had just stuck to my plan," she said, impassionate, "this never would have happened."

Quinn pursed her lips. "You know the surest way to make God laugh, right?"

Rachel nodded and sighed. "Make plans."

"It'll be okay, Rach," Quinn reassured the other girl. "I mean, look at me. I made it through my pregnancy, and I was still in high school. And now I'm at Yale." _And having sex with my best friend who also happens to be a girl._ She kept that latter part to herself.

"You're so much braver than I could ever hope to be, Quinn."

Quinn shook her head. At the time, she hadn't felt brave at all. She'd lied to Finn about him being the father. She had kept Beth a secret from everyone who mattered. Thinking back to that part of her life felt like a lifetime ago. But being here in New York though, ready to confront Santana,_ this_ felt brave.

"You won't have to go through this alone," Quinn consoled. "You have so many people in your life who care about you."

"Like you?"

"Hey, if I cared enough to stop you from getting naked on camera," Quinn lightly laughed, "I'll certainly be here to help you through this."

Rachel sighed and rubbed roughly at her face. "You and Santana were so right about that. If only you'd been there to stop me from making a bad decision on Valentine's Day, too."

The comforting smile fell from Quinn's face. "Yeah. Sorry. I was a little busy that night." _And the following morning._ She cleared her throat uncomfortably, hoping she wasn't blushing. "So, um, how has living with Santana been?"

Rachel dried her eyes, happy to have a new topic to discuss. "You know she doesn't believe in personal boundaries or privacy, right?"

"That sounds about right," Quinn chuckled. "We bunked together once at cheerleading camp, and I came back to the room to discover she'd dumped out the entire contents of my suitcase and was using my toothbrush."

Rachel looked appropriately horrified. "Your toothbrush?"

"It was a new one, still in the packaging," Quinn clarified, "but she had apparently decided it was hers now. I stopped rooming with her after that, and so she and Brittany became roommates instead."

"It's funny how things work out, huh?" Rachel mused out loud. "Do you think those two will get back together someday?"

Quinn didn't like the trajectory of the conversation. "I don't know." She squirmed a little in her chair. She didn't like this feeling. It felt a whole lot like jealousy. "I think maybe they've both realized they're better as friends."

"Wouldn't it be romantic though?" Rachel's dark eyes had taken on a faraway look. "They both go out into the world and forge their own paths only to reconnect years later?"

"Kind of like you and Finn?" Quinn's voice was icier than she intended, but probably not for the reason Rachel thought.

Rachel's eyes snapped back into focus. "Quinn," she lamented, "how am I going to tell Brody? How am I going to tell _Finn_?"

Realizing she'd brought their conversation full-circle, Quinn tried to keep her tone light. "You'll figure it out. It's too bad you don't have an annoying, precocious, pint-sized diva to spill the beans for you though." She smiled warmly to let Rachel know she was joking.

Rachel looked thoughtful. "Now that you mention it, you _do_ owe me for that."

"More like owe you a smack across the head, Berry," Quinn teased.

"Oh, I'm pretty sure you've slapped me enough for one lifetime," Rachel laughed back. It was strange that they could joke about this now, not even a year removed from high school, but she wasn't going to question it. She liked this version of Quinn. She liked that it felt like they were truly friends now. "By the way, I heard about you and Santana."

Quinn jerked alert and nearly knocked over Rachel's teacup. "Heard what?" Her voice had taken on a falsetto tone and her heart pounded heavily in her chest.

"How she mouthed off to you over Thanksgiving as only Santana can, and you slapped her," Rachel clarified.

"Oh. _That."_ Quinn could feel her breathing return to normal.

Rachel worried her bottom lip. "I hope that won't make things uncomfortable for you at the loft."

"No. We talked about it and made up at Mr. Shue's attempt at a wedding." Made up and _made out._ Now they had something else to be uncomfortable about.

"How, um, how is she doing, by the way?" Quinn didn't really know what she was asking or referring to, but she felt the need to talk about the girl who had been blatantly ignoring her for weeks. And if Santana wasn't going to tell her herself, Rachel would have to do.

"She's good, I suppose. Trying to find one's place in this city can be hard," Rachel noted wistfully. "I had a really hard time adjusting to everything when I first moved here. I don't know how many times I wanted to hop on a plane back to Lima."

Quinn had to suppress an eye roll. It shouldn't have surprised her that Rachel had found a way to make a question about Santana into an opportunity to talk about herself. She stood from the table. "You done nursing that tea, Berry? I'm anxious to drop off my bag at your apartment." _And see Santana._ "Rumor has it you can get mugged in this city if you look like a tourist."

Rachel stood up and bussed her table. "Oh, we don't have to worry about that. I always bring my whistle and pepper spray."

Quinn shouldered the duffle bag she'd brought. It was heavy and awkward and she'd cursed her decision to bring it once she'd reached Grand Central Station. It had taken her an embarrassingly long time to decide which bag to bring to New York, but she'd ultimately settled on the weekend-sized bag. Even though a conventional wheeled suitcase would have been easier to lug around the city, she didn't want to give Santana the opportunity to accuse her of bringing a U-Haul to New York. She was only staying for the long weekend and then she had to get back to Yale. She had responsibilities and obligations and a GPA to consider, after all. But first she had a friendship to salvage.

* * *

When they arrived at the Bushwick loft, Quinn was honestly disappointed to find that Santana was missing. She'd been getting increasingly nervous as they picked their way across the neighborhood, mentally preparing herself for a face-off with her friend, only to have her worries be premature. Rachel didn't know where Santana was; she remarked how Santana got feisty whenever she tried to keep tabs on her. Quinn didn't want to look like a stalker by demanding that Rachel text or call Santana and demand her location, but she worried that perhaps Santana had found out about her visit and wasn't planning on returning to the apartment all weekend.

Rachel had vocal exercises to run through that afternoon, so while her friend was busy, Quinn occupied herself with some psychology homework she'd brought along. The class had started out being one of her favorites, but now, having to see Richard 3-times a week, made the sessions awkward. Soon after Valentine's Day, Quinn had ended things with her psychology professor. She didn't think sleeping with Santana had anything to do with her decision, however. It's not like she was suddenly gay and was no longer attracted to men. But maybe it had provided her with a little more clarity. He was married. He was significantly older, and really not that attractive. It was an unproductive relationship and a waste of her time.

Quinn looked up when she heard the telltale sound of a key in the apartment door's main lock. Moments later, the door flew open and Santana barged through the threshold. Her arms were burdened with canvas bags with a grocery store's logo printed on the front.

"Seriously," the Latina snarled, kicking the door closed behind her. "How can they get away with charging so much for produce in this city? I'm gonna have to start hooking on the corner if I want to buy apples. Forget about oranges."

"Hello, Santana."

Santana froze just inside the doorway at the sound of the familiar voice. Her dark eyes blinked a few times as if she didn't believe what she was seeing. Lounging on the living room couch with a heavy textbook in her lap was Quinn Fabray. "What are you...Uh, hi. What are you doing here?"

Quinn set her textbook down on the coffee table and swung her legs around until her bare feet came into contact with hardwood floor. "Rachel asked me to come," she said. "We're having a _Teen Mom_ Convention." She quirked her head to the side and appraised the other woman, still standing in the front foyer. "She didn't say anything to you?"

"No."

Quinn stood up. Her heart was hammering in her chest. She couldn't remember it ever doing that before just from her friend's presence.

"I have to go to work." Santana looked ready to run.

Quinn licked her lips. "Skip it." Her voice sounded deeper, even to her own ears.

"I can't, I'll get canned. My boss is a real ball buster."

"What's the job?"

Santana shrugged. "Bartending at some dump downtown."

"Don't you have to be 21 to be a bartender?" Quinn pragmatically pointed out. She folded her arms across her chest.

A peculiar smile stretched across Santana's generous mouth. The initial shock from seeing Quinn in her living room seemed to have dissipated. "Santana Lopez might not be 21 yet, but Rosario Cruz is 25."

"Santana!" Quinn exclaimed, hazel eyes wide. "You could get in a lot of trouble for that. You lied on your hiring paperwork and W2s?"

"Now you sound like Berry," Santana scowled. "I'm not on any payroll. I make tips, not an actual paycheck. I'm not going to federal prison anytime soon."

"When do you get home tonight?" Quinn asked. She needed to talk and she didn't want to delay it before the weekend came to an end without having the opportunity.

"Late. Or early. Depends on your perspective," Santana noted. The grocery bags were starting to get heavy and she shifted their weight in her arms. "When I work until close, like I am tonight, I usually get breakfast with the other bartenders afterwards."

Quinn sat back down and grabbed her textbook again. She opened it up to the page she'd been previously reading. She felt a little embarrassed, and she didn't want Santana to see that emotion. It hadn't occurred to her that Santana would have a job and be busy all weekend – that she wouldn't have the luxury like herself to spend countless hours reflecting on what had happened between them weeks ago.

"Have a good night then," she said without bothering to look up from the book.

Santana hovered in the entryway. She wasn't sure what to make of Quinn's dismissal. "Sure. Uh, see ya later, Q."

* * *

The next morning, Quinn stood outside of Santana's bedroom door with her hand hovering over the doorknob. She flexed her toes and grimaced when the hardwood floor creaked beneath her feet. She'd spent the previous night on the living room couch; Kurt had offered her his bedroom as he was sleeping over at his new boyfriend's apartment, but Quinn had politely turned him down. She'd tried staying awake as late as possible, hoping to catch Santana creeping in the early morning hours, but the combination of traveling from New Haven and Rachel's constant sniffling had exhausted her and she'd eventually submitted to the overwhelming sleepiness.

She was tempted to just turn the handle and peek inside to see if Santana had actually come home last night. But she didn't want to get caught letting herself into her room in case Santana was actually awake. She could practically hear Santana's voice in her head: _"Round Three, Fabray?"_

She felt her cheeks grow warm at the memory. Round One had been rushed and a little frantic, as if both women – despite the alcohol fogging their judgment – knew that at any moment one of them would realize what was happening and put a stop to it. Round Two the next morning, however, had been languid – experimental caresses and contented sighs – bitten lips and curling toes. It was the memory of Round Two that kept Quinn awake at nights and the ache between her thighs habitually throbbing.

"Good morning, Quinn."

Quinn jumped at the voice and turned around. "Rachel," she breathed. "Hi. Good morning. I was just..." She frantically tried to come up with a logical reason why she had been standing outside of Santana's bedroom like a creeper. "I was going to see if Santana wanted to get breakfast."

"I wouldn't do that," Rachel advised. "She's pretty mean in the mornings, even for Santana."

Quinn nodded. She couldn't disagree and tell Rachel that Santana was actually pretty pleasant in the mornings if she'd had multiple orgasms. She didn't think Rachel would judge her, but it had just been a one-time thing – okay, two times – so there wasn't any reason to tell their friends about it.

"So what's the plan for the day?" Quinn asked.

"I was thinking about going down to the dance studio to get some extra practice in, but I don't have to." Rachel bit her bottom lip. "You traveled all this way; I don't want to blow you off."

"I don't want you to fall behind just because I'm visiting."

"Do you want to come with me?" Rachel proposed. She seemed to bounce on her toes at the idea. "I could get you a guest pass to use the studio."

"That actually sounds like a lot of fun," Quinn admitted. "I haven't danced in a while." She really should continue hanging around the loft to wait for Santana to finally crawl out of bed, but she wasn't feeling as brave as she'd been just the day before. If she'd been gutsier, she would have just walked into Santana's bedroom right now and confronted her. The longer she stayed in the apartment, the more cowardly she became. Maybe after a good workout, she'd be able to mentally regroup and harness some of that courage again.

* * *

Quinn was happy she'd taken up Rachel on her offer. She felt good. Sweaty and stretched, but good. She hadn't planned on doing ballet that weekend, so she didn't really have the right clothes. She and Rachel weren't the same size, and she wasn't about to wake up Santana and ask to borrow some of her clothes, but she'd made do with a pair of fitted yoga pants and a tank top.

Even though she hadn't danced in a while, she was proud of herself for being able to keep up with Rachel and some of the other NYADA students who were practicing in the studio as well. She planned on pursuing a theater degree at Yale, but she'd filled her freshman-year schedule with general education classes, a little afraid to really go after the degree she wanted. After this dance session, however, she promised herself that next semester she would rededicate herself to her passions without fear.

After a few hours of dance, they'd gone to a corner deli where she was able to get a BLT and a giant kosher pickle. Rachel ordered some kind of vegan Panini that Quinn reflected could in no way be satisfying. She privately wondered if Rachel decided to go through with her pregnancy if she might start having food cravings of the non-vegan variety. She kept those mental musings to herself, however. After the dance session, Rachel appeared far more relaxed than she'd looked since Quinn had arrived in the city, and she didn't want to ruin that.

It was early afternoon by the time Quinn and Rachel returned to the loft. When Rachel opened the front door, she was slammed with her Latina roommate's accusations.

"Why isn't anything where I last put it?" Santana growled. "Berry!" she yelled, noticing her roommate's return, "what did you do with my other shoe?" She threateningly waved a gladiator sandal in Rachel's direction.

Rachel straightened her shoulders and tilted her chin up. "I didn't do anything with it," she proclaimed. "I learned my lesson the last time I tried to pick up after you."

Quinn watched as Santana continued to snarl and grumble, rushing around the apartment in a mildly contained panic. She was starting to feel a little ridiculous for having come all this way just to be continually ignored by her friend. She could appreciate that Santana had a job and needed to get to work, but why did it always seem like they were ships passing in the night?

"Santana," she called out. She tried to get her friend to pause just long enough so she could talk to her. She needed to impress upon her how important it was that they talk this weekend.

Santana rushed past Quinn without a second glance. She pulled a long wool jacket off its hook in the front entryway and tugged it on. It covered her work outfit, which Quinn could only describe as country western hooker-wear. "Can't chat," she announced tersely. "I'm gonna be late. I'm supposed to be opening the bar tonight. See ya." The front door of the loft slammed closed with Santana behind it.

Quinn wet her lips and continued staring at the back of the door where Santana had been standing just seconds before. She felt a little shell-shocked, like a tornado had just blown through the loft. "Hey Rachel," she called out, "do you know where this bar is where Santana works?"

Rachel popped her head out of the kitchenette. "I think so, why?"

Quinn twisted to address her friend. "Because we're going. Tonight."

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Thanks for the follows, favorites, and reviews, ya'll :)

* * *

**Chapter 2**

"Hey, Cruz." Santana barely looked up. Quinn didn't know if she hadn't heard her, didn't recognize her fake last name, or was just continuing to blatantly ignore her.

Quinn had ended up coming alone tonight to Santana's place of employment. Rachel had given her the name of the bar and rough directions, but she herself had refused to come along. She was too afraid of getting jostled in a crowded bar; plus, she worried that if she ordered a nonalcoholic drink, she'd get hosed down with water like a sorority girl at Spring Break. She'd seen the movie, after all. She knew what kind of shenanigans happened at this place.

When Santana finally looked up and leveled her dark gaze on Quinn, she appeared neither surprised nor impressed that Quinn had tracked her down at work. "To what do I owe the pleasure, Quinn?" she said, her face maddeningly unreadable. "You checking out how the Other Half lives?"

Quinn had hoped she could catch the other woman off-guard, but Santana looked as collected as ever. She could count on one hand the times the Latina had truly let her guard down in front of her. "Why have you been ignoring me?" she demanded.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Santana wiped her hands, slightly sticky from pouring shots all night, on the front of her tiny black booty shorts. After spending the majority of her high school career in a cheerleading skirt, she was used to the minimal clothing her new job demanded.

Her top, a white tank top with the bar's name screen-printed on the front, dipped low and afforded Quinn – and every other person in the bar – a clear view of her man-made cleavage. Quinn knew it was hypocritical to judge her for the high school breast job when she herself had had her face surgically remolded to transform from Lucy Quinn to just Quinn. It ended up being something else they had in common – stifling low self-esteem that pushed them to extremes.

"You haven't responded to any of my calls or emails in _weeks_," Quinn noted, arching a challenging eyebrow. "And since I've been in New York you haven't said two words to me."

Santana shrugged. She grabbed a bar towel and began wiping down the bar top. "I've just been busy. Not everything is about you, Fabray."

"Too busy to even text me?" Quinn was unconvinced. "It sure feels a whole lot like you've been avoiding me."

"I'm talking to you right now, aren't I?" Santana filled a glass pint with beer from the tap and shoved it down the bar to a waiting patron.

"Yeah, but that's because you're at work. You can't be rude to me and you can't run away."

"That's where you're wrong, Q. I get bonus points for being a bitch – the tourists eat that shit up. It's half the reason I decided to work at this dump." She glared at the man standing next to Quinn. "I'm gonna start charging you for that real estate you're taking up if you don't order something soon," she barked as if proving her point.

He mumbled something about a Heineken, which Santana promptly grabbed from a cooler beneath the bar. She used her ring to snap off the bottle cap and slid the beer bottle across the smooth surface of the bar top without so much as a smile.

"And the other half?"

Santana's dark gaze swept over the bar and its patrons. "Eye candy," she said with a smirk. "Have you seen how hot my coworkers are?" Her lecherous grin widened. "Course, I'm still the hottest chick here, present company excluded," she said, nodding reverently at Quinn. "By the way, what can I get you to drink, Blondie?"

"Can you_ actually_ make mixed drinks or are you just a pretty face?" Quinn returned. She'd come here tonight, not really knowing what to expect, but she was starting to feel a little braver, and she hadn't even had anything to drink yet. She took that as a good sign.

"Let me guess…" Santana leaned across the bar, closer to Quinn, her flat stomach pressing against her side of the bar top. "You like your booze like you like your women – something sweet and girlie."

Quinn wasn't going to take the bait. "Whiskey. Neat."

Santana barked out a humorless laugh.

"Is something funny?" Quinn asked, quirking a pale eyebrow.

"We don't have tea cups, Fabray."

Quinn didn't find the humor in Santana's suggestion. She had impeccable manners, yes, but she wasn't the one with the Trust Fund.

When it was clear Quinn wasn't going to continue this charged back-and-forth, Santana poured her the drink. When Quinn reached for her purse, Santana held up her hands. "It's on the house," she grunted. "You should get _some _reward for taking time outta your busy schedule to come all this way to save Berry."

Quinn pressed her lips together. "Thanks." She lifted the well drink to her lips and took an experimental sip. The whiskey burned when it hit the back of her tongue, but she remained impassive so as to not do something else Santana could taunt her about.

"Well as you can see, I've actually got to work; I can't entertain you all night. But feel free to stick around and enjoy the show," Santana winked. "Rumor has it some hot Latina chick is singing tonight."

Quinn nodded, impassive. She turned away from the bar and Santana and inspected the growing crowds at Coyote Ugly. The bar was far from her scene, but she tried not to judge. It was one of the many things she was trying to stop doing in her attempt to break away from High School Quinn Fabray.

The music over the PA system became perceptively louder and some kind of alarm started going off. The bar patrons, rather than looking worried or rushing to the closest exit, made a collective cheer. When a few of the bar staff scrambled on top of the bar, Quinn realized what was happening. The show was about to begin.

She immediately recognized the song as the opening notes blared over the speakers. The other bar patrons whistled and cheered in anticipation. A spotlight turned on and shown down on Santana who stood in the center of the main bar. That easy, maddening smirk curled the edges of her generous mouth. She brought a microphone up to her mouth. "Welcome to Coyote Ugly."

The crowd erupted with another shrill cheer and even Quinn couldn't help smiling. There was something so natural and right about Santana being the center of attention. She'd never before witnessed someone completely captivate a room with just their raw energy. It was undeniable that Rachel Berry had a talent, but that was only after opening her mouth. All Santana had to do is stand there. "Make sure you tip your bartenders."

The song picked up and Santana launched into a practiced routine. A few other employees danced on either side of the bar top, but it was clear that Santana was the star of the performance.

Santana had always possessed an abundance of life. Other people, Quinn included, were just going through the motions. And nowhere was this more apparent as when Santana performed. Even if she was only singing over the jukebox and dancing for a few hundred co-ed spring breakers, at least she was still performing. Quinn didn't even sing in the shower anymore.

A leggy brunette wiggled her way closer to Santana on the bar top stage. She wore the same standard white tank top and illegally short shorts as the other Coyote Ugly employees, so she looked like part of the act and not just an over-exuberant patron. Santana's broad smile curved into a leer and she beckoned for her coworker to dance a little closer. Soon, they were dancing back to back, both shaking their hips to the too-loud music.

Quinn tried to appreciate the performance in an objective, detached way, but she couldn't help the anger coiling in her stomach whenever the dark brunette bartender flashed a flirtatious smile in Santana's direction. She looked altogether too cozy, flinging an arm around Santana's shoulders as they sang the chorus together. Quinn cringed. The other bartender sounded horrible and clearly had never heard of harmonizing. This wasn't a real show, she decided after not too long. It was glorified karaoke. She was glad Rachel had decided not join her tonight. The pint-sized diva would have complained the entire time.

When the song came to an end, Quinn grabbed her things. She had seen enough and the whiskey she'd ordered wasn't going down without a fight. The trip to the obnoxious tourist-club had been a complete waste of time. This wasn't the time or the place to confront Santana.

But just when she was feeling resigned and had convinced herself it was time to go, Santana appeared at her table, looking a little flushed and breathless from the energetic performance. "You're still here."

"Don't worry." Quinn wiggled out of her booth seat. "I was just about to leave."

Something flashed across Santana's face, some unreadable emotion that Quinn wasn't able to place before it disappeared altogether. "I'm done with my shift," Santana said. "Some of the girls wanna go dancing at a gay club in the Village."

"That's nice."

Santana sighed dramatically. "Do you wanna come with or do you have to get home to Tubbers?"

Quinn clutched her purse a little tighter. "That's not a very nice name. It wasn't nice when you called me it in high school, and it certainly isn't nice to call Rachel now."

Santana rolled her eyes. "I'm glad you've turned into the Defend-Berry-Crusader," she snarled.

"What's your problem?" Quinn put her hand on her hip. "Why this attitude?"

"I'm always like this," Santana said, looking away briefly. "You just haven't been around me lately."

"And whose fault is that?" Quinn challenged. She tilted her chin up. "You've been ignoring me since Valentine's Day."

Santana's eyes flashed angrily. "Well it certainly didn't take you long after hearing the news about Rachel to come running to New York and save the day. I could be shooting up distress flares over here and you wouldn't have noticed."

"I came here to see you too, Santana," Quinn shot back, not letting her play the victim. "I felt obligated to talk with Rachel though. I know what she's going through – an unplanned teenage pregnancy with a guy who's not your actual boyfriend? It's all scarily familiar."

"I suppose so," Santana snorted noncommittally.

Santana's response infuriated Quinn. No one could push her buttons so quickly and efficiently as the Latina it seemed. In more ways than one. Half the time she didn't know if she wanted to punch her or fuck her. The intensity of those emotions honestly frightened her.

"So are you coming or not?"

Quinn narrowed her eyes. "I'm coming."

* * *

Quinn always felt a little nervous when she used her fake ID to get into a bar or a club. She'd originally gotten it so she could get into more places with Richard, her psychology professor, but since Valentine's Day she hadn't had a reason to use it. Richard still called – she just chose to ignore his invitations. It was just a matter of time before he moved on to another freshman girl she figured.

The bouncer at the Greenwich Village bar barely gave her ID a glance before taking her cover-charge money and offering a lukewarm welcome to her and the other women in her group. Quinn didn't know why she'd thought an entourage of five attractive women would have caused more of a scene at the queer establishment, but the butch bouncer had looked unimpressed.

Once inside, they elbowed their way to the bar and successfully ordered drinks. For a few moments afterwards they hovered hear the bar, just sipping their alcohol and bobbing to the music until a booth opened up. Quinn found herself being ushered in the direction of the recently vacated table and promptly squeezed between a blonde and redhead while Santana and the disconcerting brunette from before sat on the other side. They'd all introduced themselves during the cab ride from Coyote Ugly to the Village, but Quinn had been too preoccupied with the way Santana and the brunette had been talking, heads bent close together, to pay attention or remember their names now.

"God my feet are killing me," the redheaded girl with a cute upturned nose complained as she eased onto the bench seat. "Those new boots pinched the hell out of my toes all night."

"But at least you looked hot in them," the blonde girl responded.

The redhead raised her glass. "Hell yeah, I did.

Quinn wondered if all the girls at the table were gay. None of them looked wide-eyed or uncomfortable being at the Village club, but perhaps that just came with the experience of working at a bar like Coyote Ugly. She hoped she didn't look like the poor country cousin, slack-jawed and blinking at cross-dressing men and women unabashedly making out in the darkened corners of the bar. She liked to think of herself as cosmopolitan – her family had taken numerous out-of-country vacations when she was younger – but New York City's nightlife made her feel like she was on a different planet altogether.

"So how do you two know each other?"

Quinn snapped her attention back to the table. The redhead stared at her intently, waiting for a response. "We went to high school together back in the day," Quinn supplied. It had been less than a year since graduation, but their fake IDs suggested otherwise.

"Oh, in Alaska?"

Quinn shot a look in Santana's direction, but the Latina only shrugged.

"Yeah. Alaska." Quinn had no idea what kind of Tall Tales Santana had been weaving, but she wasn't going to be responsible for blowing her cover. Quinn herself was skilled in the practice of half-truths. She hadn't recently had the opportunity to practice her craft, but she figured it was like riding a bicycle.

"Do you live here?"

"No, Quinn's too fancy for this rat-infested town," Santana interjected before Quinn could respond. "She goes to Yale."

"Holy shit," the redhead swore. "Like _Yale _Yale? You must be a total brain."

Quinn looked down at her drink cupped in her hands. "I do alright," she mumbled. Normally she was more than okay telling people she went to Yale. But in this group of girls, where she already felt out-of-place, it only made her feel like an even bigger outsider.

One of the girls from Coyote Ugly leaned closer – a tan blonde whose pigtails made her look younger than Quinn. "So what's Alaska like? I hear the male-to-female ratio is crazy – like 10 guys for every girl."

"Oh, I like those odds," the redhead chimed in. She and the blonde high-fived each other. Apparently they weren't all lesbians, after all.

"Do wild animals roam the streets?" the blonde asked.

"Pretty much," Quinn confirmed. She took a sip of her drink and tried not to visibly gag. Her Screwdriver tasted like all vodka and no orange juice. "Every once in a while a black bear would wander into town, but for the most part the animals were pretty harmless." Quinn turned her attention to Santana. The girl in question was nursing her drink. "Except remember that time when those elk trampled our campsite, Rosie?"

Santana's eyebrows lifted. "How could I forget? You were buck ass naked when that bitch took down our tent."

"Well, it's not like you had on much more," Quinn countered without hesitation. She couldn't help but notice the way the dark brunette from the bar kept looking back and forth between Santana and herself, carefully observing their interactions.

"Naked, huh?" The brunette whose name Quinn didn't care to learn hiked an eyebrow. "Sounds like there's a good story there."

Quinn plastered on her sugariest smile. "Rosie, I think you should tell it. You always tell that story the best."

Santana pursed her lips, but beyond that her Poker Face held. "I didn't come here to swap stories. I came here to dance." She rose from her seat and stared down the table. "Who's coming?" She tossed back the rest of her drink and slammed down the empty glass.

The bar brunette scrambled immediately to her feet. "I'll dance."

_Why doesn't that surprise me?_ Quinn silently fumed.

Santana's gaze fell hard on Quinn, who had remained seated. "You coming, Q?" She nodded in the direction of the busy dance floor teeming with young, willing and attractive bodies.

Quinn made a big show of wiggling into her seat. "No. I'm fine right here. I think I'll make friends."

Santana licked her lips. Her expression was unreadable. "Suit yourself."

Quinn tried to be polite and pay attention to the women with whom she was sitting. They were all attractive and were paying keen attention to everything Quinn said. But she continually found her gaze being pulled in the direction of the dance floor.

That Santana was a provocative dancer didn't surprise her. She looked at home in the center of the dance floor just as she'd looked like a natural with the spotlight on her at Coyote Ugly with people chanting her name, albeit a false name. But what was disarming is the way Santana's heated gaze continually returned to Quinn's table. She didn't know what that was about.

Despite the invite to the club and the later invite to dance, she still felt like a third-wheel. She hated this feeling. She didn't know why Santana needed to have all these other girls with them tonight. She was only in town for the weekend; why couldn't Santana have ditched her coworkers for one night so they could spend time together and talk?

The redhead and blonde at her table continued to chatter uselessly, but their words muffled together like the adults' voices in a Charlie Brown cartoon. All Quinn could focus on was the fiery Latina wiggling and grinding on the dance floor, looking like she hadn't a care in the world, and how that bitch brunette from the bar clung to her like a koala bear on a eucalyptus tree.

Quinn recognized the emotion. _ Jealousy_. When she saw Santana leave the dance floor by herself and walk in the direction of the neon-signed bathrooms at the far end of the club, Quinn stood up and excused herself from the table.

It was now or never, Quinn told herself as she maneuvered through crowds of drag queens and women with alternative-lifestyle haircuts. She didn't exactly know what she was going to say to Santana once she cornered her in the women's bathroom. She only knew she couldn't continue to idly stand by while Santana ignored her for the attention of other women.

Quinn pushed the bathroom door open to find Santana standing in front of a row of sinks, washing her hands. Even under the unflattering halogen lights of the women's bathroom, she looked undeniably edible. Before leaving Coyote Ugly, she'd changed out of her uniform. Gone was the trashy white tank top and black booty shorts, replaced by a form-fitting pale yellow dress that contrasted attractively with her dark complexion. Quinn's hazel gaze swept from her raven hair, pulled back into a long ponytail; to the thin, but muscled arms and the capable hands currently working up a sudsy lather; down to feminine, yet defined calf muscles, propped up in black heels. Her skin was slightly flushed from her activities on the dance floor.

Santana looked up into the vanity mirror when the restroom door swung wide open. Quinn glared at her from just inside the entryway. "What?" Santana demanded. She grabbed some paper towel and dried off her hands.

"Why did you insist on bringing me here tonight if you were just going to ignore me?" Quinn put her hands on her hips. "I could be back at your apartment being ignored instead."

Santana spun away from the mirror. "I didn't _bring _you here, Quinn. I just invited you to tag along. This isn't a date," she snorted.

"I never said it was a date, Santana," Quinn angrily shot back. "Just because we had sex doesn't mean I want to date you now."

There. She'd said it. Out loud. _They'd had sex. _She felt her knees buckle and she grabbed onto the paper towel dispenser with one hand for stability.

"Don't flatter yourself," Santana scoffed. "You were never on my radar to begin with."

"So it's gonna be like that?"

Santana shrugged. "Don't know what to tell you."

"So you wouldn't have a problem with me taking someone home tonight?" Quinn challenged.

Santana didn't hesitate. "The Hobbit might freak out a little. She's weird about strangers in the apartment. Plus, I think she's always had a crush on you."

"I'm not talking about Rachel," Quinn growled. "I'm talking about _you_."

"Go ahead and get your mack on, Q," Santana encouraged. "Have fun." A lazy grin settled onto her lips. "I'll even buy the next round and help grease the wheels."

"You're an idiot."

Quinn grabbed the other woman on either side of her head, practically tearing her ears off, and pulled her in for a crushing kiss. Their bodies smashed together inelegantly, hips knocking against each others. Quinn dropped one hand to Santana's hip and grabbed a fistful of dress, pulling her impossibly closer. She pressed her lips hard against Santana's, nothing gentle about the embrace. She wanted to make Santana feel her. She needed Santana to feel _something. _

Just as abruptly as she'd started the kiss, Quinn jerked away. Santana licked her kiss-swollen lips and stared at the blonde. Quinn's eyes were darker than she'd ever seen them.

Santana's heart leapt in her throat at Quinn's next words: "Take me home, Santana."

TBC

* * *

**A/N2:** *wicked laugh* I love cliffhangers. How about you?

**A/N3:** If you've read my other stories here at or have checked out my profile, you know I also write original stories as well as fan fiction. My latest novel, _Winter Jacket_ was released yesterday and is now available at Amazon in hard copy or e-book. I hope you'll check it out! - Eliza Lentzski


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Again, thanks for the follows, favorites, and reviews! Love hearing (reading?) what y'all think of this little fic.

* * *

**Chapter 3**

The taxi ride from the club had been short, but not short enough. Santana's hands had found their way beneath the bottom hem of Quinn's sundress soon after she'd told the driver the address. Her fingers had slipped beneath the elastic waistband of lacy undergarments not long after reaching the Bushwick neighborhood.

Quinn's eyes were slammed shut and her bottom lip was trapped firmly between her upper and lower row of teeth by the time the cabbie rolled the vehicle to a stop and announced they'd reached their destination. Before Quinn could even feign embarrassment from letting Santana touch her so intimately in the back of a New York City cab, Santana's hand was back in sight, handing over cab-fare and the other hand was pulling Quinn out of the rear passenger-side door.

Quinn laughed the entire near-sprint up to the apartment Santana shared with her former Glee-mates. She wasn't sure if it was the alcohol making her giddy or if the culprit was Santana Lopez herself. Yale was forgotten when she was around. The bold Latina had always had a knack for pulling Quinn from her comfort zone.

Santana cursed quietly as she tried to get her key into the lock on her apartment door.

"Can't find the hole?" Quinn lightly teased. She was standing so close that her breath tickled the back of Santana's neck.

Santana swore again, this time louder. She'd practically dropped her keys altogether when she'd felt, more than sensed, Quinn's proximity. "I certainly didn't have a hard time with that in the cab," she gloated, trying to save face in front of the blonde.

Quinn's arms were around her torso, spinning her around and pressing her back solidly against the door. "No. You didn't." She grabbed two fistfuls of dress material near Santana's midsection and scratched her nails down her abdomen, through the material.

Santana felt uncharacteristically vulnerable beneath Quinn's wild, almost predatory gaze. She'd been the recipient of hungry appraisals before, from both men and women, but something about the way Quinn was looking at her made her feel like a field mouse darting through an open field. The question remained, though – did she _want _to be caught?

"We should go inside," she managed to pant. Quinn leaned in closer and Santana felt her knees buckle.

"Why?" Quinn breathed heavily into Santana's ear. She pinned Santana's wrists against the door and pressed her body fully against the Latina's. Santana could feel the full pressure of Quinn's breasts flattening against her and narrow hipbones knocking against her own.

"Because," Santana choked out, "the guy across the hall is a total perv, and I don't know about you, but I don't plan on giving him wank-off material for the night."

"Gross." Quinn pushed off the door with her palms on either side of Santana's body. She stood upright, no longer pressed against the dark brunette. "You really know how to ruin the moment, Lopez."

Santana released a shaky breath. She tried to get her breathing under control again. "_Relax_," she told herself. "_It's just Quinn_." But nothing about that statement helped her relax.

She turned back to the task of unlocking the apartment door. She was better able to concentrate without Quinn's breath warm on her skin or Quinn's body molded against her own. Santana successfully opened the door and reached inside to flip on the light toggle she knew existed just inside the apartment.

When she turned on the light, the modest-sized apartment illuminated to reveal Rachel standing in the living room, sipping from a wine glass. She looked surprised to see Santana and Quinn, but she recovered quickly. "Oh, hey guys."

A flurry of Spanish words escaped Santana's mouth. She spoke far too rapidly for Quinn with her 3-years of high school Spanish to translate, but her tone was undeniably angry. Santana crossed the room in three strides and promptly knocked the wine glass from Rachel's hand.

Rachel watched, dumbfounded, as the glass flew from her hand and its dark crimson contents spilled onto the rug.

"Are you _loca en la cabeza_, Berry?!" Santana exploded. "Have you lost it completely? You can't drink alcohol. You're pregnant!"

Rachel was still too shocked to properly get angry at Santana's behavior. "No, I'm not."

"I think you need your head examined. On what planet is it a good idea for you to be drinking?"

Rachel shook her head hard. "I didn't mean I'm not crazy; I meant I'm not _pregnant_."

Santana's jaw dropped. "What?!"

"The pee stick was wrong," Rachel said with a surprising lack of emotion. "I couldn't handle it anymore and went to an all-night walk-in clinic tonight. It was a false positive."

Rachel's eyes flew open even wider when Santana immediately enveloped her in a bone-crushing hug.

Santana, realizing that she was actually hugging _Rachel-Freaking-Berry_ pulled back and coughed. She tugged on her ponytail and looked everywhere except for in Rachel or Quinn's direction. "Uh, so that's good news. Congrats on not being _Teen Mom 2_, Berry."

"Yeah," Quinn chimed in. "I'm happy everything worked out."

"Thank you," Rachel said, bobbing her head. "I was hoping you'd be home earlier so we could all celebrate my good news. Maybe go to Callbacks," she noted. "Were you guys at Coyote Ugly all night?"

Santana spoke for the pair. "Some girls from work wanted to go dancing after my shift was done. Quinn tagged along."

If Rachel was hurt Santana or Quinn hadn't called to invite her, she didn't show it. "Well, I'm going to bed," she announced. "It's been a long week. You'll clean up the rug, right?"

"Whatever, Berry. I'm not your maid," Santana scoffed. "You should've milked that pregnancy card for all it was worth. I might've actually been nice to you a little longer."

The small brunette stomped her foot. "But you're the one who knocked the wine out of my hand."

"Yeah, and if you would've just texted me when you found out you weren't knocked up," Santana countered, "I never would have wasted a perfectly good merlot."

"I'll clean it up, Rach," Quinn piped up. "You can go to bed."

Rachel looked momentarily startled as if she'd forgotten Quinn had been standing there the whole time. "No, no. You're a guest, Quinn. You don't have to do that."

Quinn gave Rachel her most serene smile. "I insist. You've had an emotional couple of days. You deserve a break."

Rachel teetered in the living room, clearly unsure what to do with Quinn's offer. Finally, after another moment of indecision, she nodded. "Well if you insist." She looked between the two former cheerleaders. "Goodnight, Santana," she clipped. "Goodnight, Quinn."

As soon as Rachel was in her bedroom and out of earshot, Santana spun on her heels to glare at Quinn. "Why did you say you'd clean up for Berry?"

Quinn put her hands on her hips and smirked. "Because it was the only thing I could think of that would get you two to stop fighting. Rachel needed to get to bed so I could get back to kissing you."

Santana's eyebrows rose.

"Where's your cleaning supplies?"

Santana arched an eyebrow. "You're really going to clean that up?"

"Call it a leftover from Judy Fabray's brainwashing," Quinn shrugged. "Where do you keep the chemicals?"

"Under the kitchen sink, I think."

"You think?" Quinn echoed, sounding amused.

"You know I'm not the cleaning type," she said flatly. "Streisand and Lady Hummel do that for me."

When Quinn bent over and opened the cabinet beneath the sink to investigate, Santana openly ogled her ass. A vivid mental image of bending Quinn over the counter and having her way with her flooded her brain. She wanted to hike up Quinn's skirt and bury her tongue inside her. She wanted Quinn grabbing onto the countertop, white knuckled, while she rapidly pistoned in and out of her. She thought about her strap-on in the bottom of her dresser.

Santana mentally shook herself. She didn't know why Quinn had such an affect on her. She was hot, yeah, but she'd been with hot women before. There was something about Quinn that brought out a nearly animalistic, primal need from within her. Santana folded her arms across her chest, shoving down those intense emotions, and watched Quinn retrieve a plastic bottle of some cleaner and spray it directly on the wine-soaked spot.

Quinn momentarily stopped dabbing at the stain to look up. "Is that why you don't have a real bedroom?"

"Huh?"

"Because you don't help out with chores," Quinn clarified. "Is that why you don't get one of the bedrooms?"

"I've got a wall of bed sheets. That not good enough for you, Fabray?"

"Wall of Jericho," Quinn mumbled to herself. She started scrubbing at the stubborn spot.

Her words were just loud enough for Santana to hear her. "What the hell is that? Some smart-person Ivy League thing?"

Quinn looked up again and blew the hair out of her eyes. "No. It's from an old Frank Capra film, _It Happened One Night_. Claudette Colbert and Clark Gable spend the night together in a motel, but they're not married so he puts up a blanket wall between their beds and calls it the Wall of Jericho."

"So I was right," Santana snorted. "Some smart person thing." Watching Quinn cleaning on her hands and knees was perversely turning her on. The neckline of Quinn's top was scooped just low enough that with her bent over, Santana could see all the way down to Quinn's navel. She knew she should look away, but she couldn't.

"It's from a movie, San," Quinn rolled her eyes. "That's hardly fancy."

Santana shrugged, nonplussed. "Well, I've never heard of it."

"Maybe we could rent it sometime." Quinn looked away, not trusting herself to make eye contact.

"Uh, yeah." She licked her lips. "I could probably be persuaded."

"I think this is as clean as this carpet is gonna get." Quinn stood up and stretched, feeling and looking stiff. She still sometimes felt the affects of the car accident. She hated to think about what it would be like when she was 50 years older. "We should probably get some sleep."

Santana looked genuinely offended. "What happened to all that Game you had at the club? Don't tell me you're too tired now?" she taunted. "Worried you won't be able to keep up?"

"Oh. I can keep up just fine," Quinn retorted. "But I'm not in the mood to be quiet." Her lips curled at the edges. "And unless you want Rachel knowing all our business..." she trailed off. "Then we probably shouldn't start something tonight we can't finish."

Santana felt a tightening in her chest. Quinn's words mocked her and her current sleeping arrangement: _I'm not in the mood to be quiet_. It made her consider hawking the small diamond earrings her_ abuela_ had given her for her _quinceañera _so she could afford a hotel room, if only for the night. It was ludicrous how much she wanted to be intimate with Quinn again.

"So does that mean you're sleeping out on the couch?"

"Hell, no. I'm bunking with you, Lopez. I didn't come all this way just to sleep on a lumpy couch you guys probably found on a street corner."

"Well, don't expect me to cuddle," Santana snorted. "I ain't your teddy bear."

Quinn pursed her lips as she walked past Santana in the direction of her makeshift bedroom. She brushed against Santana's shoulder on purpose, causing the other woman to stiffen. "We'll see."

* * *

Santana followed Quinn into her partitioned-off room. She pulled the curtain close to afford them a modicum of privacy although Quinn had made it clear they wouldn't need it tonight. When she turned back to the room, Quinn had wasted no time in shedding her clothes. Her skirt and scoop-neck top from the night were on the floor. Quinn Fabray, in all her perfection, stood in her bedroom looking more flawless than ever in just her underwear.

Quinn, aware of Santana's approving gaze, felt mildly vulnerable with being practically naked. She folded her arms across her bra-encased chest, not aware that the motion pressed her breasts together, unnecessarily torturing Santana. She didn't want to make a big deal out of changing in front of Santana. They'd changed clothes in front of each other hundreds of times in high school for Cheerios. Now that they'd slept together though, what had once been familiar now felt charged with uneasy feelings.

"My suitcase is in Rachel's room," she said. In her attempts to be cocky and put on a brave face in front of Santana, she'd forgotten about that detail just as she'd stripped out of her clothes. "Do you have something I can sleep in?"

If she had been at the top of her game, Santana would have followed up Quinn's question with any number of sexually suggestive responses. But she wasn't at the top of her game. Not with Quinn standing in her poor excuse for a bedroom, stripped down to nothing but a sinfully sexy matching bra and panty set. Instead, she averted her eyes and cleared her throat. "Uh, sure."

She turned to her wardrobe, the only other piece of furniture in the room besides her bed, and rummaged around before pulling out a Cheerio t-shirt and cotton shorts. She tossed them in Quinn's direction without looking and changed into her own pajamas – a similar outfit – and kept her eyes off Quinn as she did the same.

Quinn stood next to the bed and played with the top edge of the comforter. "What side do you want?"

Santana both loved and hated how good Quinn looked in her clothes. "Wasn't Rachel the one who invited you here?"

Quinn frowned. "I guess so. Why?"

"If you're _her_ guest, then why am _I_ the one sharing my bed?"

Quinn arched a perfect eyebrow. Everything about Quinn Fabray was perfect, even in high school when she'd thought she'd hit rock bottom. It was part of the reason Santana was terrified. She shouldn't be feeling these things. She shouldn't have butterflies from just thinking about sharing a bed with Quinn.

"You'd rather I slept with Rachel tonight?"

Santana couldn't deny the unstated challenge in Quinn's tone. She was calling her bluff.

_Man up, Lopez_, she silently berated herself. _Well, not man...cause it's not clear if Quinn is into that anymore...but you know what I mean._

"No," she finally husked. She took a few steps closer and grabbed firmly onto Quinn's hips. "I only want you in _my _bed."

"Then stop playing so damn hard to get, Lopez," Quinn growled. Her eyes narrowed in a silent challenge.

"I have to pee," Santana blurted out.

An amused eyebrow arched on Quinn's unlined forehead. "Ok."

Santana's cheeks visibly flushed; Quinn couldn't recall having seen the bold Latina ever blush. It only endeared her to her even more and reassured her that there was more to Santana than her brash outer walls.

"Sorry," Santana mumbled. "All that alcohol. It finally caught up with me."

With her preverbal tail between her legs, Santana scampered out of the makeshift room.

Quinn chuckled to herself as she crawled into bed and waited for Santana to return from the bathroom. She stared at the white plaster ceiling and the long crack that bifurcated the room. She tugged at the collar of her t-shirt. The clothes that Santana had lent her were a little big, particularly the shirt. They were approximately the same size, but Santana's clothes had room for noticeable curves that Quinn lacked. She yanked off the t-shirt and wiggled out of the shorts. Rather than feeling comforted by the light scent of Santana's fabric softener, the clothes only made her feel inadequate. She didn't feel sexy. She never felt sexy when compared to her friend. Quinn Fabray was a very pretty girl; some might even say beautiful. But Santana Lopez possessed a sexual prowess that she could only envy.

Quinn breathed out heavily and thought about what she was doing in Santana's bed. She wasn't gay, she told herself; she wasn't like Santana. Sure she'd been _curious _about what two women might do together in bed; it was hard not to be inquisitive about that kind of thing when your best friend was an Out and Proud lesbian, not afraid to brag about her sexual conquests. Maybe she was just gay for Santana, she hypothesized. She lay in bed and tried to create a word for what she was feeling.

_Gaytana. _

_Lesbopez._

Each one was worse than the made-up word before.

Santana cleared her throat when she re-entered her bedroom. Her earlier buzz from the club and the taxicab ride home had diminished by now, and she was starting to feel less brave about having Quinn Fabray in her bed. They hadn't shared a bed since Valentine's Day evening, and before that, it hadn't been since Cheerios summer camp their freshman year. Santana had bunked with Brittany every summer after that. She needed more alcohol, but she knew she would just get an earful from Rachel later about drinking. It wasn't worth the headache.

Quinn propped herself up in bed on her elbows. "You getting in here, Lopez? Or are you waiting for an invite?"

Santana bit down on her tongue. It was so easy to be her bitchy self around Quinn. She seemed to bring it out of her. As for Quinn, Santana couldn't tell if her cocky attitude was to cover up nerves or if it was genuine. That Quinn Fabray might not be anxious about sleeping with her, regardless if they actually slept tonight or not, was a jab to her delicate ego. If Quinn wasn't going to make a big deal about this, neither was she.

She mentally reassured herself of these things until Quinn pulled back the, revealing her flimsy, lacy under-things. The deep violet material made her pale skin look even more delicate, even more porcelain. Her lacy demi-bra perfectly cupped her breasts, significantly smaller than her own, but proportionate to Quinn's thin frame. The matching underwear cut across her taunt abdomen. Her sharp hipbones peeked out from the top of the waistband. Santana found herself wondering what the back of her underwear looked like and how it might frame and hug the blonde's pert backside.

"What happened to those pajamas I pulled out for you?"

Quinn shrugged, her graceful shoulders lifting and falling. "I changed my mind."

Santana slid onto the mattress beside Quinn. The bed was neither large nor comfortable and she felt as rigid as Mr. Schue's hair product when Quinn slid her palm across her hips.

"You smell nice," Quinn murmured.

"I don't know how." Santana was acutely aware of Quinn's proximity. "I feel like there's an inch of sweat on me."

When Quinn's tongue made contact with her neck, licking a broad swipe from her collarbone up to her earlobe, Santana barely suppressed an embarrassingly loud moan.

"Mmmm…salty," Quinn purred.

Despite being taken aback by the unexpected action, Santana quickly recovered; she wasn't going to let Quinn have the upper hand. She may have caught her off-guard in the club's bathroom, but Santana had regained control in the taxi when she'd taken advantage of the fact that Quinn was wearing a skirt. She'd regain control again.

Santana grabbed onto Quinn's hips, feeling the fine bones slice into her palms. She pinned Quinn on her back, pulling an uncharacteristic squeal from the beautiful blonde. "That was kind of adorable, Q," she murmured.

She continued to admire the woman beneath her. Quinn's hair was a little tussled and her cheeks looked flushed. And even while being a little breathless, she looked perfect, if not more so than usual.

The way Santana was looking down at her made Quinn's heart flutter. But it also made her uncomfortable. There weren't supposed to be feelings involved with this. She hadn't come to New York to complicate their friendship even more. But she also couldn't deny the feelings of jealousy and possessiveness she'd felt earlier.

Quinn grabbed onto the front of Santana's t-shirt. "Just kiss me," she said impatiently.

TBC

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**A/N2:** In Chapter 4, I finally earn that M-rating :D


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Time to earn that M rating.

* * *

**Chapter 4**

Santana couldn't recall having enjoyed shedding a woman's undergarments so much so as when she did it to Quinn. Her fingers had toyed only momentarily with the elastic waistband before curling beneath. The lacy underwear felt delicate beneath her slightly shaking hands. She was going to see Quinn Fabray naked. Again. And they were going to have sex. Again. It was a sobering thought. When Quinn arched her backside off the mattress, it was the only encouragement she had needed to slide the flimsy panties down the other woman's jutting hipbones and down her long, long legs.

When Quinn sat up in bed to unfasten her bra, Santana placed her hands on top of Quinn's. "Stop," she instructed. Quinn arched a questioning eyebrow. "I want to do it," Santana clarified.

She could hear the slight intake of breath before Quinn nodded her acquiescence. She reached behind Quinn; her hands glided along smooth skin until she felt the bra clasp. She unfastened the garment so it was only held up by the shoulder straps. Santana scooted a little closer on the bed so she could kiss along the tops of Quinn's pale shoulders. Her steady hands slid the two straps down Quinn's shoulders and off her slender arms, until the bra fell away, rendering the blonde completely naked.

Quinn let her head fall back, affording Santana better access to her neck and collarbone. Santana's mouth was magic. Her nostrils flared, her breathing sounded labored, and yet Santana had barely touched her. "I'm feeling a little underdressed," she murmured.

Santana was not an obtuse girl; she didn't need a second hint. She quickly tore off her own cotton shirt, eager fingers fumbling just a bit, and pulled off her pajama pants until she too was naked, along with Quinn.

Santana breathed in the woman perched on her bed from her blonde hair, long and curled like she'd worn it early in her high school career before her life had turned upside down, and admired the slender, taut body that showed no visible signs of a teenage pregnancy that felt eons ago.

Santana took her time, kissing the pale skin of Quinn's naked breasts, rotating from one breast to the other. She took a pebbled nipple into her mouth and flicked at the sensitive nub with the tip of her tongue. She heard the blonde's quiet hiss and felt Quinn's fingers weaving into her hair, pulling her closer.

Santana pressed her fingers against Quinn's breastplate and looked up. "Lay down, Q."

"You're awfully big on giving me commands tonight," Quinn observed.

"Are you going to put up a fight?"

"Not until you tell me to do something I didn't already want to do," Quinn said, meeting Santana's challenge with one of her own. She looked behind her to find the nearest pillow before lying down.

Santana, still sitting up, idly trailed her fingers along Quinn's swollen folds. It had surprised her the first time they'd had sex that Little Miss Innocent shaved. But she supposed the label of "innocent" was a bit of a misnomer. Quinn had had a baby, she'd dated a professor, and she'd had sex with her. Twice. In fact, the more she thought about it, Quinn might have been more sexually experienced than she was. That thought made Santana pause. She talked a big game, but at her core Santana was a romantic.

Quinn pressed her hands against her abdomen and the feeling of Santana stroking her so delicately intensified. "That feels so good, San," she breathed.

"Roll over."

Quinn lifted her head up from her pillow and quirked an eyebrow. "What's the magic word?"

"Roll over," Santana repeated, "and I'll make you cum hard."

Not getting the response she'd expected, Quinn felt the blush creep onto her cheeks. She was used to Santana's crassness, but it typically wasn't in this context. "Good enough."

With some effort, Quinn heaved herself off the not entirely comfortable mattress and rolled onto her stomach. She was a little uneasy being naked this way; it felt more vulnerable when she had to crane her neck to see Santana. "Like this?" she asked, still not sure what Santana had planned for her.

She felt strong fingers wiggle in the space between her knees and the mattress. Santana grabbed onto Quinn's lower thighs and gently pulled until she was up on her hands and knees. "That's much better," came Santana's gruff reply.

"Santana." The way Quinn said her name sounded like a warning. "Tell me what you're doing."

She shivered when she felt hands ghost over her outer thighs to rest on her hips. "I'll talk to you every step of the way, Q."

"Good," Quinn breathed. "Because I don't like surpri—." Her words were cut off by a gentle, but firm smack to her backside. "What the fuck?" she growled. She turned her head to look over her shoulder and glared at the beaming Latina.

Santana tried to look innocent, but she knew her horns were showing. She couldn't help it though. It wasn't everyday Quinn Fabray submitted. "Sorry, Q. I guess you want a warning before I spank you, huh?"

"Or you could just not slap me," Quinn snapped. "Ever think of that?"

Santana's fingers trailed over the place where her palm had struck. She hadn't hit Quinn all that hard, but her porcelain skin still showed a faint pink mark. "Trust me. You're gonna like this."

Santana's hands left Quinn's backside and moved to rest on the inside of her thighs. The skin there was warm and impossibly soft, while still feeling taunt and femininely muscled beneath her confident touch. Santana applied slight pressure on her inner thighs, coaxing Quinn's legs further apart on the mattress.

Quinn bit down on her lower lip when she felt the other woman spreading her wider apart. "San." If she'd thought she'd felt vulnerable before, simply lying on her stomach, this new position took that vulnerability to a whole new level.

"Just trust me, Q," Santana repeated. She stroked her fingers along the inside of Quinn's thighs, hoping to sooth her uneasiness. The hands at Quinn's thighs tightened suddenly. "I'm gonna eat you out now. Is that okay?"

Before Quinn could respond or react, she felt the mattress sink and shift beneath her hands and knees, and then suddenly Santana's mouth was on her sex. Quinn breathed in sharply through her nose, fully aware that the walls of Santana's bedroom were made out of cotton sheets and that Rachel Berry slept just a few hundred feet away, if that.

Santana licked the length of Quinn's slit. "Oh God," Quinn quietly groaned when she felt the tip of Santana's tongue just barely flick against her clit before sliding all the way back again.

"Fuck," Quinn moaned, arching her back slightly. "How are you so good at that?"

The dark-haired woman paused long enough to respond. "I'm good at everything I set my mind to. Plus I speak fluent Spanish," she added. "Gotta have a flexible tongue to roll all those R's."

Quinn barely suppressed a shudder. She knew all about Santana's flexible tongue.

Santana held hard onto the blonde's pale thighs, fingers digging in as if she worried Quinn might try to run away. She flattened her tongue and licked again, tasting Quinn's arousal, thick on her tongue.

Quinn felt the absence of Santana's heat and the mattress moved again. "Why did you…why did you stop?" she choked out, feeling equally annoyed and breathless.

She groaned again when she felt Santana's naked body drape over her own and when her breasts flattened against her back. She could feel _all _of the sexy Latina this way.

"I didn't stop," Santana noted. "I just changed my mind." She thrust her pelvic bone lightly back and forth, pressing against Quinn's sex from behind with each forward thrust. She could practically feel Quinn's wetness and her own saliva, wet on her skin. It was only times like this when Santana lamented being born with lady parts.

"About what?" Quinn was starting to feel the burn in her forearms from holding up her weight, but she was keenly aware of how good Santana's body felt pressed against her own and craved more.

Santana's breath was warm and tickled her right ear. "I'm gonna fuck you with my fingers."

"Oo-okay," Quinn stuttered.

Santana placed her middle finger against the opening of Quinn's sex. She stroked her finger up and down her wet slit, gathering Quinn's arousal. Slowly, she sunk her digit inside from the first to the second knuckle. She rotated her single finger like a corkscrew and was rewarded with quiet mewls of appreciation.

"You like that?" Santana rasped. "Feel good?"

"Fuck, yes," Quinn sighed. She closed her eyes and tried not to dwell on the fact that she was on all fours and that her best friend was fingering her from behind.

Santana pulled all the way out and replaced her single digit with two. She felt Quinn accommodate the extra finger, stretching around her knuckles. She couldn't help her own groan at feeling Quinn so warm and wet and a surge of pride knowing that it was she who had done this to her friend. She slowly dipped in and out, mesmerized at the sight of her fingers being sucked in and out of the blonde's shaved sex.

Santana's fingers continued to pierce her. Quinn's head was unceremoniously forced up and back when Santana made good use of her long, blonde hair, pulling it back into a ponytail with her free hand. Her back arched and her naked breasts jutted out.

"Fuck you're tight," Santana quietly growled. "It's like your pussy wants to break off my fingers."

Quinn could only whimper in agreement.

Santana curled her fingers up and sought out the slightly textured upper wall that she knew would make Quinn scream.

"Oh, God. I'm gonna cum, San," Quinn sobbed.

In response to her admission, Santana slammed her fingers harder and faster. She let go of Quinn's hair and snaked her hand around her waist so she could pinch and stroke Quinn's clit between her fingers.

Quinn fell forward and screamed into her pillow, her cries thankfully muffled by the thick down material. Her arms gave out, her knees wobbled unsteadily, and she crashed flat on the mattress. "Holy shit," she gasped, when her breathing came back under her control.

"I'm sorry if that was…too much," Santana said in an uncharacteristically quiet voice. She found herself unable to make eye contact with the other woman. "I don't want to scare you. I just…I couldn't help myself, I guess."

Quinn rolled back over onto her back and breathed out shakily. "I've never done anything like that before."

Santana winced; she continued hovering near the end of the bed. "Did you like it? Was it good? Was it bad?"

Quinn paused before responding. "It was different."

Recognizing the look that flashed over Santana's face, Quinn abruptly sat up and grabbed onto her wrist before she could sprint off. "I didn't say I didn't like it," Quinn noted with some heat. "It just…it took me by surprise. It was totally different from what we did on Valentine's. I didn't realize there were so many things women could do in bed."

The hurt look softened on Santana's features. "That was only a _taste_ of what two women can do together," she snorted.

Quinn released her hold on Santana's arm and instead leaned her weight on one elbow. "I'm listening," she smiled.

Santana sat down at the end of the mattress, not bothering to cover up. She had no problem with her nakedness. She worked hard to maintain her figure and wasn't afraid to show off her hard work. "Well, you still have to sit on my face," she observed.

Quinn cleared her throat. As much as Santana's words embarrassed her, the mental images they produced were far more pleasant.

"And as much as I dig what we've done already, I think sex is more enjoyable when we're getting off at the same time – none of this 'taking turns' bullshit," Santana continued. "So that means 69ing, mutual masturbation, scissoring, tribbing," she ticked off.

Quinn had no idea what half of those words meant, but she wasn't about to interrupt and admit her naivety.

"And that's not even mentioning all the fun to be had with sex toys. Strap-ons, vibrators, clamps, bondage. Seriously, girlie," Santana grinned, "it's just the tip of the iceberg."

Quinn's hazel eyes had gotten perceptively larger the longer Santana's sex-rant continued. She didn't know what to say. "Oh."

Santana laughed, not unkindly. "Uh oh. Did I break you?"

Quinn cleared her throat. "No," she said, shaking her head. Her loose hair ruffled around her face. "This is all very educational. I like learning new things."

"Well any time I can school the Ivy Leaguer, I'm game," Santana winked.

Quinn tried to stifle a yawn, but failed.

Santana smirked. "Sleepy, Princess?"

Quinn smiled bashfully and nodded. "Sorry." She raked her fingers self-consciously through her hair. "I seemed to have hit a wall."

"Orgasms will do that to ya," Santana noted, pursing her lips.

"Did you want me to, um, give one to you?"

Santana involuntarily clenched her thighs. She could practically feel her own arousal coating the insides of her legs. "No. Don't worry about it, Q. I'm fine."

Quinn worried her bottom lip. "Was I…was I not any good last time?" Their first time had been one-sided, but during Round Two she'd been braver and had explored Santana's body with her mouth, tongue, and fingers. Santana hadn't laughed in her face at the time, so she'd thought she'd been okay. But now those feelings of inadequacy were bubbling to the surface.

"Believe me, Q. You're a natural. You popped my cork like I was a bottle of fine champagne."

Quinn wrinkled her nose. "I don't know why you talk like that," she complained. "You could have just said I was okay in bed."

"You have nothing to worry about," Santana reassured. "You were amazing."

"Really?" Quinn hated that she sounded so weak.

"Really." Santana kissed the tip of Quinn's nose. It felt like a very couple-y, intimate thing to do and she stiffened after she'd done it. She hadn't been thinking when she'd kissed Quinn; she'd just done what felt natural. "Now shove over, lady," she said briskly, building up her walls again. "It's late and I gotta gets me some beauty sleep."

* * *

Waking up the next morning with Santana Lopez snuggled against her was an altogether new, but certainly not disconcerting discovery for Quinn. When they'd spent the night together over Valentine's Day weekend, they'd slept on opposite sides of the hotel bed, hardly touching while they slept, despite having just been intimate. Here in New York, however, Santana's bed wasn't large enough for them to avoid each other, but it was certainly large enough that the cuddling wasn't necessary. While it surprised Quinn that Santana had made it her mission to use her as a pillow, discovering that the hard-shelled Latina had a snuggly side wasn't shocking. She'd always suspected there was more to Santana than sarcasm and clever nicknames.

Quinn hazarded running her fingers through the dark-haired woman's silken hair while she slept. Her hair was impossibly soft and it slipped effortlessly between her fingers. She half-worried Santana would wake up in a wild fury about the too-intimate gesture, but they'd done far more intimate things the previous evening, so she didn't care much about Santana's reaction.

Santana slightly stirred at the light touch, but didn't jerk away. Quinn took that as a good sign. "Good morning," Quinn whispered into the room.

"Morning," Santana mumbled in return. She'd yet to open up her eyes. Mornings would be much better if they didn't include sunshine.

"God, what's that racket?" Quinn complained, squinting into the early morning sunlight. It felt like she'd been sleeping with cotton balls in her mouth. She hadn't had much to drink the previous night, but she supposed switching between different kinds of hard liquor hadn't helped her cause.

"It's Rachel," Santana grumbled, burying her face into Quinn's neck like she was her personal pillow. "Not surprising, she's a morning person."

Quinn made a disgruntled noise of her own. The only thing worse than waking up to the annoying buzz of an alarm clock was waking up to the annoying buzz of Rachel Berry. She could hear the other woman clomping around the main living space. It took her a moment too long, however, to realize that the clomping of Rachel's shoes was getting closer.

"It's time to wake up!" Rachel's voice practically sang. The curtains of Santana's makeshift room were thrown open. "Time to face your hangover!"

Santana rolled off of Quinn just in time to recognize the shock on Rachel's face. "Well, shit."

"Your clothes. What happened to your clothes?" Rachel gaped. "Did we get robbed last night and they only took your clothes?"

"Oh, God." Quinn groaned and pulled the covers over her head. "This isn't happening."

"Goddamn it, Berry," Santana cursed again. "Knock much?"

To Rachel's credit she pulled herself together quickly. "As much as I hate to state the obvious," she huffed, her nose in the air, "you lack a door upon which I could knock."

Santana threw a pillow in her direction and Rachel squealed before narrowly missing being hit. "The roommate agreement explicitly says _no violence!_" she stated shrilly.

"And I'm pretty damn sure that stupid agreement also says you're _not _to get in my business when I bring girls home," Santana snarled back.

"But that's not a girl," Rachel protested, pointing wildly at the scene before her. "That's _Quinn_."

"Who is very much still in the room," came Quinn's muffled reply from beneath the heavy down comforter, still unwilling to emerge.

Rachel made a noise of frustration. "Fine," she huffed. "But you two can't hide in here forever. And when you emerge," she said, eyes a little wild and pointed finger erratically waving, "we _are _going to talk about this."

"Can't wait," Santana sing-songed, batting her eyelashes.

Rachel made another disgruntled noise before spinning on her heels and stomping out of the room.

"She's still annoying as ever," Santana sighed when Rachel had made her dramatic exit. "But at least I don't have to deal with a _pregnant _Rachel Berry now. God," she snorted, "can you even _imagine_ what that would have been like?"

Quinn carefully popped back up from beneath the covers. She was glad Rachel hadn't lingered. It was starting to get muggy beneath the thick comforter. "So Rachel's not to interfere when you bring _girls_ home?" She made sure to emphasize the plural nature of the gender-specific word. She didn't know what was happening between Santana and her, but she did know the thought of Santana bringing other women home and doing things to them that she'd done to her last night didn't sit well. She didn't know if her ego was hurt at the thought of being just another sexual conquest or if she was starting to have real feelings for her friend.

"What's your question?" Santana propped her arms behind her head as a mock pillow. She'd thrown her pillow at Rachel and didn't feel like getting out of bed to retrieve it.

Quinn narrowed her eyes on the Latina. "This cavalier attitude you have about sex isn't very attractive."

Santana turned her head slightly, not surprised to see Quinn's gaze was as intense as ever. It seemed like nothing could ever be easy between them. "So we're really going to talk about this?"

"I want to." Quinn bit down on her lower lip. "We need to."

"Fine," Santana sighed. "What do you want to talk about?"

"How about how you're cruising through life, hopping from one bed to the next without it meaning anything?"

"Which one do you want to be, Q?" Santana snorted incredulously. "The pot or the kettle?"

Quinn couldn't pretend she didn't know what Santana was talking about. But she wasn't about to let Santana turn this into an attack on the choices she'd made since arriving on Yale's campus a semester and a half ago.

"I don't know what you want from me, Q. On Valentine's Day you were drunk, you were horny, and you were feeling sorry for yourself. Don't pretend I was anything more than a little experiment."

"I wasn't drunk last night and I'm not drunk right now," Quinn said evenly. "So what do you call that? Another experiment?"

"Fuck if I know." Santana breathed uneasily into the space above her head. "Just another lapse in judgment in a life filled with questionable decision making." As soon as the words came out, she wanted to take them back.

Quinn resisted the urge to slap Santana. It was too easy to resort to physical violence. She felt like tearing her hair out. Why did Santana insist on being so frustrating all the time? "You don't get it," she steamed. "I don't want to be just another pretty face. I don't want to be a notch on your bedpost."

"No. _You _don't get it." Santana couldn't handle lying next to Quinn and all her naked glory and continue to have this ridiculous conversation. She threw the covers off her body and launched out of bed. She grabbed onto the nearest item of clothing, an oversized t-shirt from the floor, and pulled it on. "You could never just be that to me. You're Quinn Fabray, for Christ's sake."

Quinn frowned from the bed. "I don't know what that means."

Santana roughly ran her fingers through her hair. "_It means_ Valentine's Day wasn't just some uncomplicated fuck for me," she exclaimed.

"Then what was it?" Quinn challenged.

"Complicated."

Quinn sat up in bed and leaned closer. "How was it complicated?" she pressed.

Santana threw her hands up. "How much time do you have?" she exclaimed. "Number One, you're not gay."

"I've had sex with you on multiple occasions, Santana," Quinn pointed out. "I don't know what your definition of Gay is, but that's certainly not Straight."

"Well, whatever," Santana snapped off. "I know how you work, Fabray." Her body seemed to vibrate with raw emotion. "Whatever it is that's happening, you're not brave enough to live Out and Proud; you're not ready to taste the rainbow."

"Don't assume to know me, Santana," Quinn said stubbornly. She tried to maintain a cool exterior, but Santana's admission that sex with her actually _meant something_ made her voice waver. The way the fiery Latina was worked up _over her_ made her feel something foreign in the pit of her stomach.

"So what?" Santana bellowed, her voice rising in volume, not caring that Rachel could hear them. "Does this mean you want to be my girlfriend?"

The louder and more confrontational and honest Santana became, the quieter and smaller Quinn felt. "I-I don't know." What she did know was that she no longer felt in control of the conversation, and that made her uneasy. She'd come to New York to confront Santana, not the other way around. This wasn't supposed to happen like this. This wasn't the plan.

"Yeah," Santana snorted, "that's what I thought."

"San." Quinn's quiet murmur went unheard, so she grabbed onto Santana's wrist before she could storm away. Quinn tugged, just hard enough to pull Santana back onto the mattress with her. There was no mistaking the wounded and angry look on Santana's face, but Quinn wasn't without her own vulnerabilities and feelings of inadequacy. "I don't…." She got choked up and had to start again. "I don't want to be Brittany's replacement."

Santana blinked vacantly. "How could you ever think I'd do that to you?"

Quinn released a deep, shuddering breath. "I just know how much Brittany means to you. And how much you were hurting when you found out she was dating Sam. I thought maybe that's what Valentine's Day was about."

Santana folded her legs beneath her body and settled more easily on the mattress, closer to Quinn. She didn't feel so angry anymore. Seeing Quinn's walls start to crumble made her ache all over. She wanted to protect her; that's all she'd ever wanted to do, even back in high school. But it always felt like when Fate was fucking up Quinn's life, it was dishing some hot shit at her, too.

Santana looked down at her hands. She didn't know what to say; she didn't have the words. She wasn't very practiced at being honest with others, let alone herself. Maybe that had been part of the attraction of dating Brittany – her innocence was contagious, and she let her hide out with her in that made-up unicorn, jellybean, and rainbow world.

Quinn wasn't like that though. Her words, like an open-palmed slap to the face, always forced Santana to come back to Reality. There was no running when it came to Quinn. There was nowhere to hide.

"I'll always have a spot in my heart for Brit," Santana slowly admitted. "She was my first love. She's the girl who made me realize I was gay and who helped me be brave enough to Come Out to myself." She let out a shaky breath. "And that was a harder thing to do than actually Coming Out to my family and friends."

Quinn's next words were quiet. Contemplative. "Maybe you could help me be brave."

Santana swallowed hard. "Yeah?"

Quinn ducked her head and looked away.

Santana licked her lips. She knew she wanted to be that person; she wanted to be brave enough for the both of them. She cleared her throat. "How much longer are you planning on staying in New York?"

Quinn looked back. "Just another night, I guess. I have classes on Monday."

"Do you…I don't know – shit – do you maybe want to grab a cup of coffee this afternoon? And maybe, I don't know, we could go do something afterwards?"

Quinn tilted her head to the side. "Santana Lopez, are you asking me out on a date?"

Santana's beautiful face twisted into a scowl. "Not if you're going to make fun of me."

Quinn reached out and cupped Santana's face, brushing her thumb across her cheekbone. "I would love to go on a date with you, San."

Santana let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "Good." The two remained silent, just smiling at each other for a long, comfortable moment. "So are you ready to get out of bed and face the world?"

Quinn made a face. "By 'world,' do you mean Rachel?"

Santana grinned and nodded.

Quinn groaned and rubbed at her face. "No. A world of no."

Santana's wide, expressive mouth curled into a warm smile. "Too bad."

FIN

* * *

**A/N2:** Thanks for giving this little story a chance! If you like my fan fiction, be sure to check out my original lesbian romance novels, available at Amazon. My latest book, _Winter Jacket, _turns a lurid trope (a professor/student affair) into something else altogether. More details can be found in my author profile.


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